01 - Murder in the Holy City

by Simon Beaufort

  “I miss the ale,” interrupted Roger enthusiastically, eager to join in. “And the wenches. These Greek and Arab women are all right, but I prefer a lass who understands what I am saying.”

  Geoffrey was surprised Roger indulged in conversations of any kind during his frequent bouts of womanising, but saw the monks look shocked and decided Roger’s taste in women was hardly a suitable topic to be discussed with two monks in a church.

  “Is there anything more you can tell me?” he prompted politely, addressing the monks.

  “Nothing,” said Celeste, still fixing Roger with an expression of disgust. “I spoke with the other monks, and none of them saw or heard anything that might give a clue as to why Loukas was murdered. Most of the brethren had already retired to bed—it was dark, and there is very little monks can do in the dark except sleep or pray. We are not knights who carouse and entertain women to all hours of the night. And that is all we can tell you about this matter.”

  He stood pointedly and opened the door for them. Almaric shot him another mildly admonishing glance for his rudeness.

  “Celeste is right,” he said. “I regret we cannot tell you any more. None of us really knew Loukas. I will think, though, and if I can come up with any more information, I will send word to you.”

  The knights took their leave of the Benedictines and began to walk back to the citadel. Geoffrey frowned.

  “We have learned nothing about Loukas to make matters clearer. But we have our connection between Guido and Jocelyn. The Canon we spoke to earlier said the Benedictine who hung around Guido had eyes of different colours, and now Brother Celeste informs us that Jocelyn had such eyes. The two men spent time in Guido’s room at the Augustinian Priory, writing. Guido was killed two days later, and Jocelyn seemed to have learned of his death while hovering outside waiting for him to return. Jocelyn, nervous and irritable, returned to the Dome of the Rock, where he too was murdered.”

  “But Brother Pius did not visit Guido,” Roger pointed out. “He would have been useless anyway, since he could not write.”

  “So he would,” said Geoffrey, “if his Prior was telling us the truth about his illiteracy. But the Prior did tell us that Pius had trouble sleeping at night. Who knows what he really might have been doing while his brethren slept soundly, believing him to be praying in the church?”

  Geoffrey, Roger, and Hugh sat together in a shady garden watching the last rays of the sun fade away in a haze of orange. Somewhere in the distance, the mournful wail of a Moslem call to prayer rose and fell, quickly joined by a second and then a third. The garden had a little waterfall, and its pleasant gurgle mingled with the muezzins’ voices in a sound that Geoffrey thought he would associate with Jerusalem for as long as he lived.

  “Damned caterwauling,” grumbled Roger.

  The dog lifted his head and uttered a dismal answering howl to the singing. Roger attempted to drown out the dog and the call to prayer by slurping noisily from his tankard of ale.

  “The ale is weak, the music appalling, and the women scarce,” he complained. “What a place to be!”

  Geoffrey looked up to where bats flitted to feast on the clouds of insects that gathered in the trees above. A gentle breeze turned the leaves this way and that in a soft whisper, and wafted the strong scent of blooms around the garden. Geoffrey was reminded suddenly and irrelevantly of his home in the castle at Goodrich, so many thousands of miles away, and of a glade near the river that was always peaceful at dusk. He closed his eyes and inhaled, trying to recall the distinctive aroma of home: wood fires, wet grass, copses of spring flowers. But the memory eluded him, and the familiar smells of Jerusalem pervaded: huge flowers—the names of which he did not know—and dust.

  He was jolted to alertness with a start as Hugh splashed a handful of water over him from the fountain, and Roger rocked with laughter.

  “Welcome back,” said Hugh. “We have been talking to you for at least five minutes, imagining you were doing us the courtesy of listening, only to find you are not at home.”

  “Sorry,” said Geoffrey. “I was trying to remember what it is like in England.”

  Hugh and Roger stared at him mystified.

  “Well, we were discussing what you had discovered today,” said Hugh eventually. “You learned that Brother Jocelyn worked occasionally for Bohemond as scribe, and that he was nervous the day before he died. Brother Pius was not a scribe, but was brave enough to shop for meat at the salubrious premises of Akira, where he was dispatched while the redoubtable butcher slept. And Loukas was not a priest at all. It does not seem that there is a link between these three men.”

  “Loukas sounded short of a few marbles,” said Roger, with a significant tap to his temple with a grimy forefinger.

  “That may well have been an act,” said Geoffrey, “to secure him a position working at the Holy Sepulchre while all the other Greeks were banned. He may well have been a spy for them, pretending to be harmlessly insane to lure them into speaking their secrets when he was around.”

  “In which case, he may have been killed by someone at the Holy Sepulchre who discovered what he was doing,” mused Hugh. “And Jocelyn may have been killed for something he learned while in the employ of Bohemond.”

  “But it does not fit together,” said Geoffrey. “And this dagger business is curious: the same knife, or similar ones, were used for each victim. The monks at the Dome of the Rock and Akira wanted to steal the ones that killed Jocelyn and Pius, but they were too slow on the uptake, and the daggers had disappeared by the time they looked for them. Brother Celeste said he had covered Loukas’s body with a blanket when it was discovered, and it was surrounded by a crowd of monks praying for him the whole time. But by the time the body was moved to the chapel, the knife had gone.”

  “While your woman …” began Hugh.

  “Melisende Mikelos,” put in Roger.

  “While Melisende Mikelos took the knife from John’s body, and carried it outside with her—just as I suggested she may have done,” said Hugh smugly. “And it was stolen when she dropped it in the street. What of the dagger that killed Guido?”

  “That was brought to the citadel with his body. I asked to see it, but for some reason it was not kept. No one seems certain what might have happened to it, but you know how soldiers are with valuables. I imagine one of them realised he might be able to sell it, and stole it on the basis that no one at the citadel was likely to want the weapon that had killed a knight. I began to question the men who brought Guido back, but it appears the body was left unattended for some time in the citadel chapel, and anyone could have stolen the weapon then. And the same is true of a letter thought to have been from the Advocate, brought to the citadel by that unpleasant Canon from St. Mary’s Church. Guido’s friends say there was no letter among his belongings and claim he was unlikely to have one anyway, since he could not read.”

  “What a mess,” said Roger in disgust. “Nothing clear, everything muddled. A priest must be behind all this, because a soldier would never stoop to such subterfuge!”

  “So, what will you do tomorrow?” asked Hugh, a smile catching at the corners of his mouth at Roger’s remark. “You learned precious little from your enquiries today, except a few facts that confuse the issue more.”

  Geoffrey sighed and leaned back in his chair, studying the way the leaves were patterned black against the dark blue sky. “I suppose I will go to speak to the Patriarch’s scribes to ask about Brother Jocelyn. Then I will attempt to discover where in the marketplace these daggers are sold, and perhaps try to find out more of Loukas from the Greek community.”

  “Be careful, my friend,” said Hugh. “If Loukas was a spy, then the Greeks are hardly likely to admit it, and they will do all they can to prevent you from finding out.”

  “We should go,” said Roger, glancing up at the dark sky. “The curfew bell will sound soon.”

  The three knights left the garden, said their farewells to the taverner who allowed them to use it,
and made their way back to the citadel. Roger bellowed the password for half of Jerusalem to hear, and the guards let them through the wicket gate. As soon as they were inside, a small man scurried toward them, his face streaked with grime and his eyes wide with fear.

  “Sir Geoffrey?” he began in a querulous voice, looking at the three knights. Geoffrey raised a hand. “I am Brother Marius,” the man said shakily, “one of the scribes employed by the Patriarch to investigate the strange deaths that have been occurring recently. Brother Dunstan, who worked with me, has been murdered.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The three knights stared at the trembling scribe in horror as he announced the news of Brother Dunstan’s murder.

  “How?” asked Geoffrey eventually.

  “I did not dawdle to make a thorough investigation, but he looked to have been strangled. It must be something to do with these murders. Perhaps the killer thinks we have sufficient information to solve the mystery, and wants us dead before we can work it out. I am afraid, Sir Geoffrey! Where can I go where I will be safe? How do I know that even now the killer is not watching my every move?”

  Marius’s voice began to take on the edge of hysteria, and Geoffrey interrupted brusquely. “You are safe in the citadel.”

  He wondered whether this were true, especially given that a dagger and a pig’s heart had been placed so easily in his own chamber. He stared at the frightened monk as he tried to imagine who might have put such a grisly warning in his room. A common soldier would be unlikely to gain access to it without being challenged, so whoever left the dagger and heart had to have been a knight. Yet all the knights at the citadel were under the command of either the Advocate, Bohemond, or Tancred. But both Tancred and the Advocate had asked Geoffrey to investigate the murders, and they would hardly have asked him, knowing his reputation for tenacity, to do so if they were involved themselves. Meanwhile, Bohemond was in his own Kingdom of Antioch in the north, trying to secure his lands.

  Geoffrey brought his whirling thoughts under control. “Where was Dunstan killed?”

  “At his own desk in the Patriarch’s scriptorium,” the monk answered miserably.

  “Did you see anyone there running away or hiding in the shadows?”

  Marius blanched, but shook his head. “No. Dunstan missed his meal, you see, and I was concerned that he may have been ill. I looked for him in the dormitory, in the gardens and in the chapel, but he was not there. I could not imagine why he would be in the scriptorium after dark—we need daylight in which to work—but it was the only other place I could think of. The door was open, whereas it is usually locked, and I sensed something was wrong. I entered, and there he was, lying across his desk with the rope tight around his neck.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do? What do you mean?”

  “Did you examine the body? Did you loosen the rope? Did you shout out?”

  Marius looked confused. “I cannot recall. I think I took his hand in mine, but it was cold. Then I ran for my life.”

  Geoffrey turned to one of the guards and sent him to fetch Tom Wolfram to saddle their horses—he had walked to the Patriarch’s Palace the night before, but in view of the fact that he had been followed then, he considered it was probably safer to ride and to keep to the wider, more public streets.

  Hugh gestured at Marius. “I will see him safely installed in the chapel. No one will harm him in a church.”

  “No,” said Geoffrey. “Take him to my chamber. Leave the dog with him. Although the mutt might be useless in any kind of confrontation, his barking might prove a deterrent if the killer desires stealth.”

  “I can do better than that,” said Hugh. “I will stay with him myself. I have had rather too much of that excellent wine, but a Norman knight drunk is still worth ten sober Lorrainers, or Hospitallers, or whoever else might come.”

  “Careful,” said Geoffrey warningly, seeing fear break out on the monk’s face. He took Hugh’s arm and led him out of the scribe’s hearing. “Talk to Marius. See what you can discover. See if there is anything he did not write on that scroll Tancred gave me that he may have considered unimportant at the time, but that may be relevant now.”

  Hugh nodded, but looked uneasy. “Be careful, Geoffrey. If you have not returned by dawn, I will send out a rescue party for you.”

  Roger gestured for the guard to open the gates, and they rode out. Wolfram had brought a lamp, and Geoffrey suppressed a sigh of resignation.

  “That lamp will provide an excellent target for an archer,” he said, riding next to the young sergeant. “And I see you are not wearing your chain mail again.”

  Wolfram glanced at him guiltily and quickly doused the lamp. “I only thought we might need it to see where we are going.”

  “Trust your horse, lad,” bellowed Roger from behind. “And learn to read shadows.”

  “Read shadows?”

  Geoffrey suppressed his impatience. He had been through this lesson with Wolfram before, but the young man was slow to learn.

  “Listen to the sounds about you,” he began. “Attune yourself to the noises of the night, so that you will know if they are not right. Feel the mood of your horse. If she is skittish, it might be because she senses a danger you cannot.”

  Wolfram nodded, and Geoffrey allowed Roger to take over the lesson while he spurred his horse ahead. The streets were pitch black, for the night had become cloudy and the moon was covered. Someone had been watering a garden, and the smell of wet earth was pungent in the air. Somewhere around his head, an insect sang in a high, whining hum, and further down the street, a cat sat on a high wall and yowled soulfully. Geoffrey thought he heard running footsteps in an alleyway off to the right, and strained his eyes in the darkness to see, but there was nothing.

  They reached the Patriarch’s palace without incident and banged on the front gates to be allowed in. The doors were opened almost immediately, and sleepy-eyed Arab boys were roused to take care of the horses. The guard seemed surprised when Geoffrey told him why he had come, and sent for his captain. The captain looked disbelieving, but obligingly led the way to the scriptorium. Geoffrey supposed that Marius had made his discovery and simply fled through an unguarded side door without telling anyone what he had found.

  The palace was a fine building set around a large, square courtyard. On one side lay a small chapel and the Patriarch’s sumptuous public rooms, while his private rooms and the accommodation of his retinue were opposite. The scriptorium and the monks’ quarters lay between them, a three-storied building with a refectory on the lowest floor, a dormitory above, and the scriptorium on the top floor, built with large windows to provide maximum daylight.

  The captain led Geoffrey and Roger up creaking stairs to the upper floor, past the refectory with its smell of stale grease and the monks’ dormitory with its smell of stale sweat. The scriptorium was in blackness, and obligingly Wolfram kindled his lamp. Geoffrey took it and entered. It was a simple rectangular room with two long rows of desks positioned to take best advantage of the sunlight. Lining the walls between the windows were shelves bearing great brown-edged books and neatly stacked piles of scrolls. The metallic smell of ink pervaded, and the pale wooden floor was alive with multicoloured splashes where it had been spilled.

  Draped across one of the desks toward the rear of the room was Brother Dunstan, like a huge black slug with a great arched body. His head flopped down almost to the ground, while his legs stuck out at an angle. The captain gave a sharp intake of breath and muttered that he would have to report this to the Patriarch. Geoffrey waited until his footsteps had faded, and sent Wolfram to prevent anyone else from entering until the Patriarch came. The captain’s incautious flight across the wooden floor had woken the monks in the room below, and already crabby voices were demanding to know what was happening. It would be only a matter of time before they came to investigate, and there were things Geoffrey wanted to do without an audience of monks.

  Roger helped him lift Dunstan�
�s body from the desk and lay it on the floor. Quickly, he opened the storage box on the side of the desk and rummaged through it. In it was a jumble of used scraps of vellum to be scraped clean and used again, old and broken quills, leaking ink pots, and a neatly wrapped parcel of the sickly sweet Greek pastries that Geoffrey detested.

  “He will not be needing these any more,” said Roger, leaning past Geoffrey to grab the package and slip it down the front of his surcoat. “Knightly plunder after violent death,” he added in response to Geoffrey’s silent disapproval. “And no different at all to what you are doing,” he concluded, watching Geoffrey stuff the scraps of used vellum down the front of his own surcoat. Geoffrey replaced what he had taken from Dunstan’s box with a handful of scraps from another desk, while Roger watched with raised eyebrows.

  Next, Geoffrey knelt by the body and inspected the red weal around the scribe’s neck. The rope used to strangle him was still attached, and it coiled onto the floor around him. Puzzled, Geoffrey frowned, and Roger squatted down next to him.

  “What is it?” he whispered, casting a glance toward the door. Out in the courtyard, a commotion had broken out, and there were shouts and the sound of running footsteps.

  “This rope,” said Geoffrey, picking up the end and twirling it in his fingers. “It is very thick for strangling, is it not?”

  “It did its job,” said Roger soberly.

  “I would not use rope like this to strangle someone,” said Geoffrey, studying it intently.

  “What peculiar things you say sometimes,” said Roger. “Perhaps the killer did not have time to select something more to your approval. Perhaps it was the first weapon that came to hand.”

  “And I would not tie a knot in it,” said Geoffrey, staring down at the corpse. He took Dunstan’s head in his hands and moved it about. “His neck is broken! Look at how his head moves on his neck.”